


No one

by NixVicious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Older Stiles, Stiles moved to Toronto with his Dad, don't ask me why I chose Canada because I don't know, sterek, wine is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NixVicious/pseuds/NixVicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles left to keep his dad safe. He built a new life away from everything that's happened. They both understand that this won't be more than what it is. He doesn't have room for nostalgia. Sometimes it's okay to be with someone, no strings attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Toronto but I couldn't be bothered to check actual street names and how they line up so it's all made up. But let's pretend it's valid okay?
> 
> This is totally different from my normal style of writing but I'm pretty pleased with the end result and I hope you guys like it too.

 

Inspired by this [amazing bit of prose](http://poetinside.tumblr.com/post/52101249761) by [poetinside](http://poetinside.tumblr.com/) on tumblr that I discovered while browsing the tag a week ago.

I’m not sorry.

* * *

 

No one writes letters anymore so they pass notes across the table on torn up napkins. They say things like 'The soap in the bathroom is fucking made of roses, smell my hands' and 'When we're done here I'm going to fuck you senseless'. Things that are solely them. This is new, different. This is Toronto. They aren't home. They are alone. And it would be perfect except neither of them knows how long it will last before one of them has to leave. To make that trip back to wherever they were before here.

They didn't keep in touch over the years. Stiles left after the Alpha Pack episode and never looked back. Took his Dad with him and got the fuck out of there. Nothing there to keep him rooted. His dad was safe and that was all that mattered. But tonight, tonight is for him. Solely for him. So they continue the game with the napkins until they run out of napkins. His glass of wine is only half full so he brings it to his lips and takes a deep drink. The smooth red liquid slides down his throat like rippling silk and warms his insides. His fingers curl around the stem of the glass, achingly long and slender and entirely too obscene and appealing to be good for anyone's sanity.

"Your fingers look like they were made for sex, did you know that?"

It's not said in a way that's meant to be crass and he doesn't take it as such

"Like they could fuck me just right. I think I want you to."

The tip of his index traces the length of the glass stem, up and down, up and down, quiet in his contemplation of what he supposes was a compliment. Brilliantly focused eyes track the motions and Stiles raises his own to meet them.

"Trust me when I say I want to, and I will wholeheartedly enjoy thoroughly fucking you with my fingers, if that's what you'd prefer first."

"Good. Because I won't spare you when I'm fucking you. I'm going to run you into the ground and ride you until you can't move anymore."

It's said so bluntly and calmly, followed by a satisfied sip of wine that unconsciously draws Stiles attention to the lips on the glass. His own lips curl upwards into a cross between a wry grin and a sort of rather sexy smirk that his date (yes it's a date even though the sex afterwards is the main reason they're both here so it's not a booty call) has never seen on Stiles face before.

"You look good like that,"

"And you're just full of compliments tonight."

Really he's more amused than anything else. This familiarity is not something they had before. He finds it very refreshing and tips his glass in the compliment-giver's direction. He knows his look is far more appealing now than it was all those years ago. Not that he didn't have his fair share of bedmates after leaving Beacon Hills. His geographical location may have changed but a fundamental truth remained: someone like him would always, always attract the attention of others. So he was never lonely. And he learned a great deal about pleasing himself and pleasing other people.

"I'd slather you in chocolate if you wanted if it meant I could _have_ you for more than a night. But I've had quite  a bit of wine and you look good enough to eat and I keep thinking about fucking you so I'm not restraining myself."

He reaches across the table for the hand not all that far away from his and threads their fingers together. He's rewarded with a wicked smile and a sinful drag of skin on skin to the underside of his wrists. It's the faintest of touches, feather light and whisper soft but it's a sensitive spot and they both know it. Index and middle fingers press against the pulse point there.

"We should go now before I loose all semblance of decorum and try to fuck you right here on the table."

Stiles finishes the last of his wine, "What makes you think I don't want to fuck _you_ right now on this table for everyone to see?"

"You want them to hear you scream my name? Watch me swallow you whole?"

Stiles levels an even look over their tangled hands.

"No. Because I don't share. But I will fuck you on a table before the night is over. Just not this one."

Eyebrows raise in acceptance of the challenge just issued, "I'll hold you to that."

They call the waiter over to pay the bill and succeed in making him sufficiently red-faced as they continue describing in detail what they plan to do to each other once they leave the restaurant.

***

No one walks anymore so they ignore the taxis on the street and stroll leisurely down Fraisier. Outside the air is slightly chilly so they pull their coats tighter around them as they go along. The night is filled with stars and street cars and people. Actual authentic punks in spikes and dark leather smoking cigarettes and eating pizza at some snazzy little Italian place across the road. Old men clustered around low tables playing chess in the park right next to them as they pass.

Stiles sees a preppy looking blonde-haired boy that reminds him of another really good-looking boy he used to know walking past with his tanned-skinned girlfriend. She's got dimples that remind him of another bright-eyed dimpled girl a long time ago. She's beautiful under the light of the street lamps. Stiles thinks it's a funny time to be nostalgic.

A group of brightly coloured queers and queens tromp past them, laughing scandalously loud and cursing in French. He's been here long enough to recognize the words now when he hears them though he's never bothered to learn much beyond the basics. It is Canada after all, and not France. English is still the mother tongue, main tongue? He can't really remember. Doesn't matter. He's got a nice buzz from the wine, it was a good one after all, expensive enough to make him all loosely pliant after a few full glasses.

All around them the city laughs and breathes and sweats and screams and curses and dreams. It's beautiful. Poetic almost.

Almost.

***

No one falls in love properly anymore. So they end up sloppily fucking against a wall in some dark, secluded back alley and it's the most exhilirating thing Stiles has done since he moved away. They're both high on wine and the fact that they're actually doing this. He's tingly all over. Excess energy is fizzing to bursting through his pores and he doesn't care who might see them when deft, steady fingers are making quick work of the zipper on his trousers and taking hold of his rapidly hardening dick. The strokes are fast and slick with his precum. Loud gasps and breathless pants fill the small slivers of air between them. His own hands clench the hips thrusting against his beneath the fabric of their coats, breaths mingling in the cold night air, tangled tongues tasting of red wine and desire.

It's a heady mix and they come right on the heels of each other. He crooks his fingers just so and the ones around him scrape over the slit of his head just so and then they're both covered in cum and sweat and each other and it's dirty and debauched and perfect. There's a lot to be said about his judgment if he just called it perfect.

His legs are still shaking and his companion is no better, heartbeat pounding madly against his chest as they both relearn how to breathe together. Stiles doesn't know how they make it home but they do and they fuck again. Slowly this time. Like two long lost lovers who've  been reunited after years apart. It's almost romantic the way they touch each other, tender and reverent but desperate and hungry at the same time, like they'll never have the chance again. And maybe they won't. The future is about as clear as the windows that are fogged up to the point that they're opaque. So he'll enjoy tonight while it lasts.

He memorises every inch of skin he uncovers as their clothes come off. Relishes the taste of every dip and line and curve and cut and crease and dimple with his mouth. He's all about the tiny details. The body before him that's trembling under his touch is a shrine he plans to worship at very fervently until they're both calling for god and seeing the stars behind their eyelids.

His name tumbles like a mantra from quivering lips caught between teeth that he knows only too well from the marks they've left all over him. Their love making is gentle at first before baser instincts take over and then the sex is just raw, hard, bone-bending, back-breaking fucking that makes his bed slam into the wall from the sheer vigorous force of their thrusting. At some point he ends up on his back, hands tied to the bed posts, while he's fucked to the point that he can't remember anything beyond the exact pitch of the sounds coming out of his mouth. He's drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead and then sticking up at odd angles in parts from where fingers have been gripping it and pulling it and when he had his head between sweat-slicked thighs.

It's definitely a night either of them will forget.

***

They don't wake till noon the next day. Light is streaming through the curtains, bright and golden and warm. Stiles is the first to open his eyes. He's greeted with the sight of a naked back, dark hair and long legs. Snippets of the night before filter slowly into his brain and a lazy satisfied grin makes its way onto his face. He trails a fingertip down the spine of his bedmate and waits a beat or two before sleepy eyes open drowsily to peer over at him.

They make love again. This time like they've got all the time in the world and nothing to do, nowhere to go. It's lazy and relaxed, a careful gentleness to it that wasn't there all the times they had sex last night. Sounds of the world outside quiet to a muffled din in the background. It's Saturday he thinks vaguely in the back of his mind somewhere. He's in no rush. Neither is his date/partner/bedfellow (do people still use that term?/guest?

***

Stiles stands on the stoop and takes a deep breath, cigarette between his fingers as he contemplates the merits of taking the bus over a taxi. Finally he crushes the end of the stick beneath his left shoe and slips his shades on before heading down the street.

He stops the first taxi he sees and gets in.

"Where to?"

"Elmiere and Palm on fifth, but take Broadway. I'm not in the mood for traffic,"

The taxi pulls off and he rolls down the window to let the afternoon breeze wash over his face. There's a pleasant ache in his bones and a familiar taste on his lips but he's fine. These things don't mean anything and he's fine with that. He's had enough meaning to last him a lifetime. On the sidewalks school kids are going home and the park is full of Filipinas and Sri Lankans playing with blonde, blue-eyed babies that aren't their own. He wonders who takes care of their babies while they take of those that aren't.

***

The alarm clock on the right bedside table says it's four thirty in the afternoon and the bed has a total occupancy of one. There's not so much as a dent in the mattress or crease in the sheets to suggest anyone was there the night before, or even earlier in the day. They've been smoothed over on that side and tucked back into place. Bleary eyes blink once, twice, thrice, as they adjust to the yellow sunlight streaming in through the white gauzy curtains billowing in the wind.

The windows are all open letting in the cool evening air. Kids laughing, a barking dog, faint sounds of cars rolling by, it's a soothing white noise. Bare feet pad across the bamboo floor, picking their way over discarded items of clothing. The only proof that last night happened. No lingering traces of Eros by Versace on any of them (the scent was too ridiculously sexy to not have memorised it). No coffee in the Keurig on the marble kitchen countertop, no used dishes in the sink. There's not even a note or post it or message scribbled in erasable marker on the whiteboard next to the refrigerator. Nothing.

Stiles is gone.

Derek goes back to the bedroom and shuts the windows.

 

 

* * *

Feel free to send me prompts on [my tumblr](http://nixvicious.tumblr.com/) or just say hi :)


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